But he’d apologized, and although he could swear up and down that he wasn’t going to behave like an idiot again, he would probably find himself apologizing again sometime in the future, and she would most likely just chalk it all up to a cranky nature on his part, never mind that he’d been a model of good humor and equanimity when John had been alive.
He downed his brandy. Bugger it all.
Well, he’d be done with this nonsense soon. She’d find someone, marry the bloke, and move out of the house. They would remain friends, of course—Francesca wasn’t the sort to allow otherwise—but he wouldn’t see her every day over the breakfast table. He wouldn’t even see her as often as he had before John’s death. Her new husband would not permit her to spend so much time in his company, cousinly relationship or no.
“Stirling!” he heard someone call out, followed by the usual slight cough which preceded, “Kilmartin, I mean. So sorry.”
Michael looked up to see Sir Geoffrey Fowler, an acquaintance of his from his days at Cambridge. “Nothing of it,” he said, motioning to the chair across from him.
“Splendid to see you,” Sir Geoffrey said, taking a seat. “I trust your journey home was uneventful.”
The pair exchanged the most basic of pleasantries until Sir Geoffrey got to the point. “I understand that Lady Kilmartin is looking for a husband,” he said.
Michael felt as if he’d been punched. Never mind the atrocious floral display in his drawing room; it still sounded rather distasteful coming from someone’s lips.
Someone young, reasonably handsome, and obviously in the market for a wife.
“Er, yes,” he finally replied. “I believe she is.”
“Excellent.” Sir Geoffrey rubbed his hands together in anticipation, leaving Michael with the overwhelming desire to smack his face.
“She will be quite choosy,” Michael said peevishly.
Sir Geoffrey didn’t seem to care. “Will you dower her?”
“What?” Michael snapped. Good God, he was now her nearest male relative, wasn’t he? He’d probably have to give her away at her wedding.
Hell.
“Will you?” Sir Geoffrey persisted.
“Of course,” Michael bit off.
Sir Geoffrey sucked in his breath appreciatively. “Her brother offered to do so as well.”
“The Stirlings will care for her,” Michael said stiffly.
Sir Geoffrey shrugged. “It appears the Bridgertons will as well.”
Michael felt his teeth grinding to powder.
“Don’t look so dyspeptic,” Sir Geoffrey said. “With a double dowry, she’ll be off your hands in no time. I’m sure you’re eager to be rid of her.”
Michael cocked his head, trying to decide which side of Sir Geoffrey’s nose could better take a punch.
“She’s got to be a burden on you,” Sir Geoffrey continued blithely. “The clothes alone must cost a fortune.”
Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn’t live with.
“And then when you marry,” Sir Geoffrey continued, obviously unaware that Michael was flexing his fingers and measuring his neck, “your new countess won’t want her in the house. Can’t have two hens in charge of the household, right?”
“Right,” Michael said tightly.
“Very well, then,” Sir Geoffrey said, standing up. “Good to speak with you, Kilmartin. I must be off. Need to go tell Shively the news. Not that I want the competition, of course, but this isn’t likely to stay a secret for very long, anyway. I might as well be the one to let it out.”
Michael frosted him with a glare, but Sir Geoffrey was too excited with his gossip to notice. Michael looked down at his glass. Right. He’d drunk it all. Damn.
He signaled to a waiter to bring him another, then sat back with every intention of reading the newspaper he’d picked up on the way in, but before he could even scan the headlines, he heard his name yet again. He made the minimum effort required to hide his irritation and looked up.
Trevelstam. Of the yellow roses. Michael felt the newspaper crumple between his fingers.
“Kilmartin,” the viscount said.
Michael nodded. “Trevelstam.” They knew each other; not closely, but well enough so that a friendly conversation was not unexpected. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair across from him.
Trevelstam sat, setting his half-sipped drink on the table. “How do you fare?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you much since your return.”
“Well enough,” Michael grunted. Considering that he was being forced to sit with some ninny who wanted to marry Francesca’s dowry. No, make that her double dowry. The way gossip spread, Trevelstam had probably already heard the news from Sir Geoffrey.
Trevelstam was slightly more sophisticated than Sir Geoffrey—he managed to make small talk for a full three minutes, asking about Michael’s trip to India, the voyage back, et cetera et cetera et cetera. But then, of course, he got down to his true purpose.
“I called upon Lady Kilmartin this afternoon,” he said.
“Did you?” Michael murmured. He hadn’t returned home since leaving that morning. The last thing he had wanted was to be present for Francesca’s parade of suitors.
“Indeed. She’s a lovely woman.”
“That she is,” Michael said, glad his drink had arrived.
Then not so glad when he realized it had arrived two minutes earlier and he had already drunk it.
Trevelstam cleared his throat. “I’m sure you are aware that I intend to court her.”
“I’m certainly aware of it now.” Michael eyed his glass, trying to determine if there might be a few drops of brandy left after all.
“I wasn’t certain whether I should inform you or her brother of my intentions.”
Michael was quite certain that Anthony Bridgerton, Francesca’s eldest brother, was quite capable of weeding out unsuitable marriage prospects, but nonetheless he said, “I am quite sufficient.”
“Good, good,” Trevelstam murmured, taking another sip of his drink. “I—”
“Trevelstam!” came a booming voice. “And Kilmartin, too!”
It was Lord Hardwick, big and beefy, and if not yet drunk, not exactly sober either.
“Hardwick,” both men said, acknowledging his arrival.
Hardwick grabbed a chair, scraping it along the floor until it found a place at the table. “Good to see you, good to see you,” he huffed. “Capital night, don’t you think? Most excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”
Michael had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded, anyway. Better that than actually to ask him what he meant; Michael was quite certain he lacked the patience to listen to an explanation.
“Thistleswaite’s over there setting bets on the Queen’s dogs, and, oh! Heard about Lady Kilmartin, too. Good talk tonight,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Good talk, indeed. Hate when it’s quiet here.”
“And how are the Queen’s dogs faring?” Michael inquired.
“Out of mourning, I understand.”
“The dogs?”